After
by MissBonhamCartersPoppet
Summary: An ugly, angsty drabble about Glinda. Post melting. I really need to stop writing these.


A/N: Written as an experiment in tense and description. Disclaimed.

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It was ridiculous, she thought, spreading the fine silk of her sheet, it was ridiculous to feel such a weight upon one's heart. Especially in a time of celebration. Hear the tinkling of glasses downstairs; glasses filled with thick liquids in gold and ruby and amber. Hear the odd laugh, stifled slightly by that ever-looming problem of propriety. There; the bed was made. What else, she thought still, could pass for procrastination? A mirror in the corner of the room- that would do. Hair must be checked, before descent into the jaws of the downstairs party- jaws? No, it must not be thought of as such. When did friends turn into things to be feared?

When did her true friend, she could not help but think, tears returning to those aging eyes, decide that Glinda could live without her?

A glass of water was reflected in the pane of mirror. She glared at it, filling it in her mind with all the hate and resentment and enormous _sorrow_ that had chained her to this expression of sadness, this grief that drove her to insanity.

_Why?_

Elphaba lay in a puddle.

A puddle of passions past, and love forgotten, and desperation.

There was no one to clear her soul of sin. No one there to mourn. At the time.

But Glinda mourned. She mourned till her eyes were red with tears, her throat was broken with sobs, her hands shook with what they had failed to do. She mourned till no one could understand her voice, her words, faint, melting into each other like clouds drifting across a pale sky. Mourned until the doctors had come, had stared into her hollow-like eyes and pronounced exhaustion.

A few pills, just a few pills, Chuffrey had said. He really was quite a caring thing, she thought, back to the mirror. Now she was better, they said. Of course, once the weeks had passed, once the sky had darkened, she still sobbed into her pillow each night.

So many lines on this face, so many imperfections on the face which is said to be the most beautiful in all Oz. If she still did things like laugh, Glinda would have done so. Their measure of beauty was pathetic. She would sooner have clawed her face, ripped apart that skin which had been so admired by so many, have shaved off these locks of gold, have scarred her sight and mouth, have rid her face of those perfect lips and flushed cheeks; would sooner have done all those things than accept herself as perfection. Not when true perfection- that with courage and strength, lay in that awful puddle in the tower of a man Glinda tried very hard not to despise.

There were crinkles on the side of her mouth; laugh-lines, they called them. Like photographs from a time when she was happy (could those times really have happened, if Glinda could no longer remember them?). She supposed she was happy at Shiz, happy with her situation, her shallow existence. Then _she_ changed it all, and happiness... Happiness was measured in the width of _her_ smile, the warmth of _her_hand as she held Glinda's. Happiness came in what she gave Elphaba, and when Elphaba left...

No. Not tonight. A lady, no longer a girl (when did that happen? How did she miss that?), faced her in the mirror. An adult who should know better. An adult who has a party to host.

Descend, descend. Calls of mirth reach out to her from the crowd, expensive material and jewels glitter like dew drops to her eyes, the last of her tears swimming at the ends of her lashes. Here, the smile comes on. Greet this one, enquire-

"How is your son? I hear he's engaged to Ms..."

Whatsherface. Yes, move along, find his arm. Grip it. There, if she leans, she ought to be able to stand. He smells... Like aftershave, a thick, confronting smell, enough to make you lose your train of thought. The room is too crowded, and a memory flashes through her mind- dresses and singing, Fiyero- his ridiculous pants- Nessie in her chair, a tall black hat,

Elphaba.

"... Just saying how we plan to extend the house, what with the children..."

Reality. Chuffrey looks at her with concern, an expression all too familiar.

"..Your opinion, Lady Glinda?"

Blink, and there are faces, waiting patiently. What are they looking for? She tilts her head, noting what a striking resemblance they bear to a group of vultures, leaning in, pecking greedily at her mind.

"Yes." She smiles, nodding gently, royally. This seems to satisfy them. She leans more heavily on Chuffrey, who places his free hand over hers and leads her upstairs again, excusing her from company.

"Not altogether recovered... Yes, quite late... Of course, a great pity... She thanks you all for coming..."

The music plays on, dancing continues, Glinda lies quietly in bed, a pill on her tongue ("Just for sleep, darling, nothing more...") and a cloth across her forehead. Her husband bends his lips to her hair and kisses her softly, knowing that she is already gone.

"Don't dream tonight," he speaks to her slumbering body, so frail so quickly, "Not of her."

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I go on holiday on Friday, so hopefully I'll have time to update my other stories.


End file.
